


Afterland

by Evanscent



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman Beyond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27640244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evanscent/pseuds/Evanscent
Summary: A strange amalgamation of the Bat Family. Bruce Wayne dies. Family members come out of the woodwork. Secrets are exposed. And now Alfred's death doesn't appear to have been natural causes after all. What happens when a mogul dies? His children bicker. His history boils over.  And they fight over the Batwing.This story blends comics, movies and cartoons to bring many members of the Bat Family together in a world that makes sense in my mind. It is considered non-canon and an alternate universe.
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This commingling of characters and families is not in tune to any one particular realm. However, it will NEVER include Bruce and Barbara shacking up, since that is just wrong. Tim Drake is current with the Return of the Joker.
> 
> Major character death: Alfred, Bruce, Selina, Talia... they're all gone.
> 
> But what and who do they leave behind? Questions, comments, leave it all down there.

Damian sighed loudly. “Come on, man. How long has it been?” He could hear the movement of a car in the earpiece, but Dick was silent. “Please?” He could manipulate Dick – Damian knew how to manipulate anyone, curtesy of his mother, but Dick he could play like a beautiful harp. But right now? Right now, manipulation was the last thing in the empty valleys of his mind.

“I’m sorry. I’m just not ready for it. Later. Just… not yet.” Dick disconnected.

Damian slapped his cell down on the kitchen table. It clattered against the dozen or so casserole dishes that lay abandoned on the table. A pile of sympathy cards folded under his elbow. So sorry for your loss, they whispered to him, unbidden. He sniffled, wiped at his nose and stared ahead of himself blankly, his ears ignoring the hum of the kitchen appliances as he listened. So sorry. So sorry. My condolences. His breath hissed as he rose, a hand flicking the cards dismissively to the floor. He didn’t want to hear their supposed heartfelt apologies. No one knew. No one really knew what it meant.

Forgotten, those cards would remain on the floor until he picked them up. No one else was going to do it. No one else was there to do it anyway.

His foot falls were unrivaled in their echoes as Damian made his way to the foyer. His head hung loose from his shoulders as he found a seat on the stairs, gaze on the front door. This place felt so strange these days. It was empty. It was, well, it wasn’t lonesome. Damian knew what lonesomeness was. This house didn’t feel lonesome as much as it felt, well, empty. The dogs barked outside. The sound reminded him that someone was going to have to feed them. Maybe they still had a groundskeeper. Maybe they would do it.

The lawyers wouldn’t be here for another day. The will reading wouldn’t be until later. There were calls to be made. Planes to be caught. Travel to be done. Things could wait until then, right? Nothing much to do until then. Except, you know, feed the dogs.

Damian heaved another sigh as he climbed the stairs. The first room he met was Alfred’s old room. The medical bed was still there. Stands for the IVs. Computers for measuring his heartrate and his blood pressure remained perfectly preserved under their plastic coverings. There was a dryness to the air, a stillness that could only be created in places of great absence. Dust trickled through the air, the slivers of light peeking through the shades illuminating each small puff. In the stillness, the particles shimmered as they floated. Damian took in a deep breath, the room giving off the scent of old books. He could taste the old, yellowed pages of Alfred’s favorite reads: Sir Author Conan Doyle. He coughed, waving a hand at the dust. It had been, what, fifteen years since Alfred had passed? He couldn’t remember. No one ever came to pick up where Alfred left off. Damian belatedly wondered if he could place a call to MI6 and find a retired spy to be his butler. Or to simply live in the Manor while Damian continued this thing he called a life.

Bruce had lost it after Alfred’s death. He deteriorated mentally more quickly than anyone could have imagined. He began to only speak of a new suit, new models, new challenges. He couldn’t stop the intense desire to return to the field. Only Alfred could have knocked some sense into the crazy old Bat. Then there was the incident. Dick was forced to do a welfare check. Bruce didn’t answer the phone for days. They found him badly beaten, still seated in the Batmobile, his face a mask of dried blood. He was barely alive. He didn’t speak to anyone for months. His spirit had taken a much more traumatic beating than his body had. Bruce never really recovered.

Damian and Dick had tried to stop by more often. They had tried to be good sons, good friends, or even good care takers. Bruce wouldn’t even allow them to sweep, put away groceries, or Hell, even buy groceries. He was curt, even more so than usual, and he was practically pushing them out of the house whenever they arrived. He wouldn’t engage in conversation, wouldn’t allow them a moment’s peace, and didn’t want them walking around, much less entering the Batcave. Mean Old Bruce was just as secretive as Mean, Less Old Bruce.

He picked up a glasses case and smoothed his fingers over the leather. The golden clasp fell open with its years of use revealing Alfred’s reading glasses. He paused and stared on, taking in the memories. Damian had just been a kid when he had broken Alfred’s glasses. He had smacked the older gent with a bo staff, chipping the lens on one side and bending the arm. He wasn’t supposed to be practicing inside the main house – they had a gym and a dojo for a reason. Alfred was probably coming to remind him of the rule before he broke something valuable. Damian was practicing his spins and, well, he did a great job of following through. Alfred had laughed it off and managed to keep the event a secret from Master Bruce. Probably. It was difficult to hide bruises on one’s face from a man known as the Detective. 

Reality bites. Damian was about to move on when something caught his eye. Beneath the glasses lay a small thumb drive. How old was this thing? He wasn’t even sure he had something that could read this old tech. He pocketed the drive and continued down the hall. He paused to gaze over the grounds outside the window. Wayne Manor had a pool, long since drained and covered, with a pool house, a dojo and gymnasium, tennis courts and, of course, the massive gardens complete with fountains and patios for events and gatherings.

Memories seeped under his skin, sending shivers along his flesh. He could almost hear the laughter, the shouts, the yelling and the thundering silences. He did not spend most of his life here. Much of it was spent with the League, sometimes under the harsh thumb of his mother, and sometimes on his own, wherever life took him. But the memories he had here were somehow just under the surface and the loss of Bruce was just enough to bring them all back with a bite. He ignored his cheeks as a tear or two dampened them.  
.  
.  
.  
Dick gripped the steering wheel of his car with a reflexive firmness, his ears ignoring the squeak of leather on leather. His jaw had been clenched for what felt like days. His chest full and tight with emotions and stressors he couldn’t begin to process. He wouldn’t let himself process anything. It wasn’t real. Not yet.

“I’m sorry. I’m just not ready for it. Later. Just… not yet.” Dick thumbed the disconnect button and silenced his brother before another argument could begin.

Those tight feelings in his chest bubbled and something escaped into his throat. It burned. His lips pursed, thinning over a deep frown that marred his countenance with a darkness he hadn’t experienced in decades.

Bruce had adopted Dick when he was young. He was a distant father figure and not capable of expressing his love like a normal dad. But Bruce taught Dick things that no one else on this Earth could have possibly understood: he taught Dick how to turn the loss of his parents into a strength to protect others. He taught Dick that family wasn’t only about blood. He taught Dick that revenge wasn’t the only answer to the bottomless pit of pain that ate at his soul day after never ending day.

The pain that slowly ate at Dick was not the same that fueled the Bat. But it was kindred. It was of the same vein. It was the blood of the heart.

Though similar enough, the differences between them wedged them apart as time went on. Eventually, Dick found Bruce’s hard-wrought ideals to be overbearing and rigid. He struck out on his own, finding his own territory in nearby Bludhaven. The two occasionally ran after the same villain, worked the same case, or even made the same investments. They worked amicably together and were able to finish off bad guys or money moves without too many passive-aggressive barbs. Most of the time.

When Alfred died, Dick had tried to swoop in and help Bruce recover. He knew the old man would need someone to do some cooking and cleaning, someone to manage his medicines, and someone to wrangle the help. Dick was almost giddy to be around to help. The thrill of being useful was overshadowed by the reality of the Bat’s hostility. Bruce had been resistant to him even stepping foot into the Manor. The crazy old coot had tossed insults, threats, and every now and again, a deadly weapon. The old man was infuriating! He even had to call Damian to try and help.

Dick forced himself to breathe deeply. He made a mental effort to unclench his jaw and release his shoulders. Bringing up his dash, he plugged in the autopilot to take him home. Enough was enough for one day. He needed a drink. Maybe some ice cream.

And who was cutting those damned onions?  
.  
.  
.  
Damian turned the light off on his bedside table, casting his room into the evening darkness. There was a stillness in the house that seemed almost suffocating. He could hear every tick of the grandfather clock in the study. He could feel the hum of the refrigerator in his teeth. The sheets were itchy. His skin was hot. He shifted in bed, flinging his arms side to side. There was a lump in the mattress, he could swear it! Giving up on the possibility of sleeping, Damian tossed the sheets aside and stomped from his bedroom. He found himself in the kitchen, the refrigerator light the only illumination in the whole house. He picked at a casserole and chewed noisily. On the floor remained the sympathy cards. Damian glared at them, his late-night grazing no longer appealing.

He threw the master switch, the sound of old electrical lights clinking and burning echoed through the halls of the Cave as they flicked on one at a time. Dust floated down, settling on the all ready dust-caked computer terminal. Damian swept a hand over it, the touch screen keyboard lights were still on. At least Bruce decided to upgrade his computer terminal if not the lighting. “Computer, when was the last logon?”

“Batman. August 5th, 2045 at 2345.”

“What was searched?”

“Access denied.”

“Computer, this is Damian Wayne. I need that information. What was accessed?”

“Welcome home, Master Damian. You do not have the proper clearance. Access denied.”

Sighing and tugging on his hair with exasperation, Damian knew that short of dismantling the entire terminal, he may not ever find out what Bruce last searched for. It was several years after Alfred had passed. What was he doing? “Computer, can you tell me anything about what Batman was looking for?”

“Access denied, Master Damian.”

“Agh! You paranoid prick!” He slapped a hand down on the keyboard and shoved at the chair, sending it sliding across the room, where it was caught by an unseen figure.

“Be careful,” the figure groused. “It took me months to convince him to upgrade his ancient system.”

Immediately, Damian recognized the Batsuit. The new one. The one Bruce had ranted and raved about. The suit was entirely black with a red Bat symbol emblazoned over the chest. It looked shiny, but he somehow appeared to be absorbing the light without reflecting it. Vanta black? Bruce had neglected to let everyone know someone else had worn it. Energy thrummed through him, his body tensing for a potential fight that would probably break a few bones. His own included. His hands reflexively gripped into fists. “What are you doing here?”

“The suit needs charging. It’s been a – a – a while.” The figure dropped his arms at his sides, his head hanging forlornly, even the tall ears of the cowl seemed to droop. “You know. Since – since…” A hiccup. Was his voice breaking? Was the man dressed as Batman …crying? 

Damian blinked hard enough he felt it in his toes. What does one say right about now? Hey, hardass, Batman doesn’t cry. “Are you… are you okay?” Yeah, that’s better. Sound human, Damian.

The figure sniffled hard, his shoulders squaring as he made an attempt to hold back all the emotion. “Yeah.” His voice was still trembling. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah. I just, uh, yeah. Gotta hang this up, ya know?” He turned, palming an energy outlet specifically for the suit, and opened a secret room. The computer’s voice offered a welcoming.

The muscles in Damian’s jaw loosened momentarily. How could he have missed that? Was there cotton in his ears? Who? What? He blinked hard again and managed to swallow. He followed behind, curious to find a completely new area of the Batcave. Outwardly, Damian tried to look as nonchalant as possible, not wanting the guest to know this was all a surprise to him. Inwardly, Damian struggled with the jealousy of not knowing something and the delight of learning something new about his father.

The figure’s hands flitted over controls, machine parts whirled, gears worked, lights blinked. “I haven’t been back, since, you know, and the suit is running on emergency power. If it had died, I wasn’t sure I could get it back. It’s pretty heavy.” He gripped at the helmet, the lights in the eyes powering down. The air released with a hiss as the positive seal of the suit broke. He tugged it loose and placed it on an automated shelf that retracted, storing the unit as it charged. Shaggy black hair sprang free, matted here and there from the pressures of the suit. He turned, giving Damian the blue eyes only a Wayne could have. “So, I guess I should introduce myself. I’m Terry. Terry McGinnis.”

Damian bit at the inside of his lips. He knew there was more. He should have guess that Bruce had someone else in his home. He should have known! Why didn’t he tell us? Why didn’t he tell me? “So, you’ve been posing as Batman? For how long?” He couldn’t keep the venom from his tone. Damian almost always breathed sarcasm.

A gloved hand worked down the back of his neck. Terry shrugged and let the anger flow off him without giving in. He could be angry later, right now he was too tired. “I have been working with Bruce since high school. Few years now.”

“And you were planning on telling us …when?” You asshole. Something in his chest hurt. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand.

Terry flushed. “Look, I, uh… I only found out a little while ago… you know… I didn’t know.” He tripped over his words and decided that he had to finish removing the suit. He gave Damian his back while he placed the suit’s units away one at a time. Terry’s actions were awkward and offbeat. He was struggling to try and understand everything at once.

“You didn’t know what?” Damian hissed, angry that Bruce, even in his death, was still keeping secrets from him. “What didn’t you know, what are you just now finding out? That Bruce had a family? We certainly didn’t know about you.” 

“Well, yeah. That. That – that – and, uh…” Terry grabbed up a t-shirt and sweat pants, quickly getting clothed. “Do you know who Amanda Waller is?”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. Was he attempted to throw him off, to turn his anger at something else? “I’ve heard of her. What of it?” Even if it was all lies.

“Well, uh,” Terry took a seat and began to fiddle with some shoes. “Turns out, I’m related to you guys. Surprise!” Terry’s hands opened wide with a rainbow of happiness. Yeah, happiness is what happens when you’re related to the most depressed man in the world.

There was the bombshell. “Related. Related how?”

“So, uh, that Waller woman? She uh, she was worried about the world not having a Batman. I mean, you guys are great and all. But she wanted something, uh, something…” Terry paused, having finally dressed, and gripped the bench beneath him. “She wanted something she could control.”

“She cloned you, didn’t she?”

Terry scoffed. “That doesn’t surprise you. Why is that not surprising.”

“My mother has been known to make an attempt or two herself.”

Terry’s blue eyes became momentary saucers. “I forget just how weird you guys can be.”

Damian shrugged. He had never thought his life was weird or strange or anything. It was just his life. Being attacked by a clone of his father was kind of an annual event in his book. A knife always felt like it was wedged between his shoulder blades and everyone was taking a turn twisting it: Talia, Bruce, Dick, and now even Terry could take a turn.

“Anyway,” Terry continued, “She set this whole thing up. She somehow managed to mutate my dad’s DNA so that I was Bruce’s kid. You know, half my mom, half Bruce. Then she had my father murdered. She said he didn’t have anything to do with the Jokers, that it was all Powers, but how can I believe her? How can I believe anything anymore! She ruined my whole life. I ran into Bruce, one thing led to another, and wham, bam, I’m Batman!” He punched at the air for emphasis.

“And so you just, what, hid all this?” Damian motioned around them, recalling how annoying – hurtful - it was to learn there were secrets still.

Terry stammered for a moment and then the floodgates rushed open. All those feelings and confusion he had piled up came pouring out with a word vomit, his arms waving as he fought to bring the ache off his shoulders. “He told me not to tell anyone! I didn’t know what to do! I thought this whole thing was just whacked beyond all control! I had barely just realized that my life – my whole life ¬– was this – this planned event! That I had no control over anything! I was – was nothing but a pawn! A pawn in this woman’s great plan. A plan that destroyed everything! My father… my dad.” Terry sucked down air, breathing rapidly. “What was I supposed to do?” His shoulders shook again, his voice becoming strangled with his emotion. “She killed my dad. And then. And then. Then I learned that Bruce… He was – was… And now he’s gone, too. What did you expect me to do?” Tears skittered down his cheeks, his chin trembled as he stared at Damian, the pain in his eyes something all too familiar. Terry was too exhausted to keep up his usual bite. He had obviously not slept well in several days. Probably since, well, who knew for sure?

Damian was not good with this stuff. This emotion stuff. His mother never allowed it. The League never gave into it. He felt so alien in moments like these. Dick, Bruce, Barbara, Alfred, they all tried to rewire him, to help him reintegrate into a society where problems weren’t solved with blades and blood. They have tried for years. It was mostly a success. Mostly. “I’m uh, I’m sorry.” He sat on the bench next to Terry. And when Terry leaned against him, the tears soaked into his shirt and he didn’t mind so much. “I’m uh, Damian. Damian Wayne.”

“Yeah, I know. Your mom scares the shit out of me.”

Damian allowed himself to breathe deeply. What was it exactly he felt about his mother?

“She isn’t coming, is she?”

Damian’s mouth opened and closed. Huh. “So there was this pit. A Lazarus Pit. It’s uh, something she and my grandfather used. She uh… she got caught up in an explosion.”

Terry nodded and wiped his nose. “I think I was there. Under the ocean?”

“I don’t think she made it out.”

“Oh,” Terry sighed, his tears fresh. He could add it to his guilt. All of it. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not sure if I am.”  
.  
.  
.  
Dick mindlessly tortured his body on the pommel horse and uneven bars. He made sure to seat his quadruple somersault multiple times. He was one of the few people in the world who could have landed that. Well, the Wayne family was well known for their acrobatic abilities. But Dick was, and is, the greatest. Sometimes it felt like this particular skill was the only thing that set him apart. And to be defined by a somersault? This was his greatest achievement? Isn’t that just a crowning achievement. He could see it on his headstone - DICK GRAYSON: LANDED A QUADRUPLE SOMERSAULT AND NO ONE ELSE COULD. The sweat soaked his eyelashes and stung his eyes when he blinked. His headstone sucked. Being in a family of world class achievers was kind of a pain in the ass sometimes.

Bruce Wayne was a man of unknown, limitless talents and knowledge: languages, economics, social norms, mythos, religion, forensics, mathematics, hand to hand combat, technological advances, computer sciences, cartography, physics, chemistry, the list was exhaustive. Dick was a shadow in the height of a mountain. And when given the chance to compare himself, Bruce never let him measure up. The Bat was always the best. He even felt complete inadequacy when he donned the cowl in Bruce’s absence. It wasn’t the four inches of height Batman had on Nightwing, it was the crushing sensation that he would never be able to do as well as his guardian.

Dick had a small edge. In hand to hand combat, Dick was just the slightest bit faster. He telegraphed that much less than Bruce. He could slip out of reach just a bit quicker. But Bruce was no slouch. And when the Bat got his hands on you, that was it, his strength was enough to crush you. Those extra inches of reach meant Dick had to be much faster and that much more ahead in the fight. But fighting Bruce had been exhausting – if he couldn’t win in 90 seconds, he couldn’t win at all. The Bat’s incredible stamina would tear through any duck and dodge play Dick could attempt. 

Dick wiped his face with a towel and took a swig from his water bottle. Somehow, causing his body some pain with a grueling workout still wasn’t enough to take his mind off the truth he was trying to avoid: Bruce was gone. He wasn’t going to come back this time. He had died in his sleep. That massive, powerful heart had finally given out. He didn’t go with a fight or in some bloody battle. He had the chance to grow old, grow feeble, grow senile and waste away. 

He recalled as Bruce began to forget to take his medicine. Or maybe the old man just didn’t care anymore. Dick had pleaded with him, tried to make deals, whatever it took, to get the old man to try and take care of himself. He stared down that grumpy jerk and tried to yell him into submission and earned himself a fist to the mouth and a cane to the back. He really should not have underestimated the Mean Old Bat. 

And now, he’s lying in that cold, dark coffin. The fight no longer possible. Maybe if Dick had tried harder, pushed more, begged more, then maybe Bruce’s heart wouldn’t have gone out so soon. Maybe if… Maybe if… Bruce shouldn’t have died like that. He should have had the chance to go out fighting! To go out as powerfully as he burst into the dark underbelly of Gotham. He should have burned with a brightness that no one could have missed it! He should have lived… he should have never gotten so weak… so sick… How could he let it happen? How could he do that to Bruce? To Batman? To his mentor? To his …dad?

I failed. I failed. I failed Bruce. I failed myself. I failed.

His knees hit the floor as he collapsed, head in his hands, his mouth hanging open as he sobbed haltingly, his breath ragged through each rasping gasp of regret. Maybe he could have saved Bruce just a little bit longer. Maybe he would still have his friend, his mentor, his boss, his guardian, maybe even his dad. It was his fault. It had to have been. There’s no other possibility. Dick just didn’t try hard enough. He didn’t try hard enough. He didn’t do it right. He didn’t try. Not enough. Never enough.

The shrill ring of his phone cut through his misery. It was Barbara. Barbara Gordon. Once upon a time she was Batgirl. Of course, she would want to talk. He clapped his hands on his thighs, coughed his throat clear and shook loose his tears. He picked up on the phone and hoped he could sound less like the once child who lost his parents and more like the adult who lost a mentor. “Hey Barbara.”

“Barbara. That’s where we are.”

Dick sighed and lifted his head toward the should-be sky. If there is a deity in charge of planet Earth today, let them strike me dead. I can’t even say her name right.

“I’m sorry. I… Dick, I’m sorry.” She sounded so far away. So small. “I’m nearby. Want to meet up?”

Dick wiped the towel down his face again, hoping it could wipe away all the dread and anxiety this night could possibly create. “Yeah, sure. Tower on State? Thirty minutes?”

“See you there.”

Dick kept the phone to his ear. He listened to the click and the dead silence as his cell was no longer active. Trust much? On autopilot, he slipped into the shower before tugging on his gear. He hoped the mask was enough to guise his feelings as well. He really didn’t want to be on duty in such a state. Mistakes are made on nights like tonight. I’m sure someone is counting on it.

Barbara sat on a gargoyle’s head, her legs dangling over the edge of the building and bobbing in and out of the gaped maw of the building’s granite protector. Tonight, she had chosen to wear her trademark purple and yellow. It brought a smile to Dick’s face. It almost felt like old times. Almost.

“Hey,” he supplied lamely, taking a seat nearby.

“Hey yourself,” she smiled. “Beautiful night. It’s almost as though you can see through the pollution!” The levity wasn’t as welcomed as she had hoped.

Dick nodded, his gloved hands rubbing idly at the concrete beneath him. He really didn’t know what to say.

“Dick. I am so, so sorry.” She managed to find herself next to him, her shoulder bumping his. “I called as soon as I heard.” 

He nodded. Words weren’t coming too quickly. Words would accompany feelings. And those feelings had a tendency to behave like a rocket ship on a collision course with his tenuous grip on reality.  
“Was it his heart?” she whispered, sounding all too scared to think it was something else.

He nodded again.

A rush of wind blew over their heads, swirling away at Barbara’s red hair and bringing a slight chill into the night. “I’m so sorry.” Her arm wrapped around his shoulders and she tugged him close. “We knew he had heart problems. I suppose it was only a matter of time-“

Dick jerked away and launched angrily to his feet. “Yes, we knew! And we could have helped! It shouldn’t have happened! Not like that!”

Barbara started to argue and caught herself. “Of course. I’m sure there’s something we could have done.” 

“We could have made him take his stupid medicine! We could have made him go to the stupid doctor! We could have made him take care of himself! We could have hired someone to come in!”  
“Of course,” Barbara repeated, as she carefully approached Dick as he paced back and forth. She guided him into her arms and held him gently, letting him rage.

“He never should have died like that! He didn’t deserve that! He didn’t deserve it… I should have been there, Barbara. I hated him for so long and I let him go. I let him—I let him—I let him die. I let him die!”

“No, Dick, no. You never hated him, no. None of that is true.” She was stroking his back, fingertips dragging down his neck.

“I did! I did! I was so mad for so long! I killed him!” He shoved away, refusing to allow her to console him. He wanted to be in this state, this fire of self-hate and loss. He wanted to take in the guilt, the shame and the fear all at once. He deserved it after all. He was neglectful, absent, uncaring, selfish – he was a bad son, friend and comrade. 

“Dick,” she plead, “You can’t blame yourself. He was his own damned person and you couldn’t ever tell him what to do. Not ever.”

He ripped the mask from his face, his eyes exposing the riot of emotions that rode him. “I couldn’t save anyone. Not anyone! Not my parents. Not him. Not anyone!”

“Dick,” Barbara tried again. “Please. Don’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have. You couldn’t have saved them.” She was just realizing that Dick had never managed to put the death of parents behind him. The men of the Wayne family all shared this common thread: they had something taken from them that was so precious that nothing in the world could ever fill the void left behind. He still had so much guilt. It was tearing him apart and she had no idea what to do. He had managed to keep it hidden for so long. Why? Why had he never allowed himself to let it go?

“I’ve got to go. I have to… I have to… I don’t know. I have to go.” He haphazardly slapped his mask back on his face. “Thanks for coming, Barbara.”

She reached out, she tried to stop him. But he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning dawn felt like it had taken centuries to arrive. Damian sat across from Terry who dozed on the sofa. Occasionally he would cry out in his sleep, wake himself, wipe at his face and settle down again. They had pulled several casseroles out of the fridge and had managed to finish a few of them through the night. Retiring to his room, Damian had managed a few hours of rest and returned to the living room to find a snorting pile of fitful Terry. Damian chewed on a cold piece of bacon, wondering if he should let the boy sleep. 

The day would undoubtedly bring unexpected and mostly unwanted solicitors. The lawyers should arrive by tonight. Dick would have to be there for that – whether he wanted to be there or not. Explaining Terry to Dick would not be the easiest task, but the chance to surprise the man rarely came anymore and Damian would not miss out on the chance to shove it in Dick’s face that he knew something first.  
The doorbell rang. Terry woke with a yelp and fell from the sofa in a gangly heap. “You stay put, I’ll get it,” Damian snickered, tossing a pillow on top of the pile of blankets and young man limbs. Can’t believe that idiot could ever be Batman.

It was lawyer number one. Who knew just how many would show up? Damian took him to the parlor where the man busied himself with whatever it was he needed to do to get ready for the evening. Returning to a sleepy, but mostly vertical Terry, Damian helped the young man to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you fed.” Terry, with bleary eyes and sunken cheeks, nodded. “You look like shit,” Damian laughed, knowing whatever was eating Terry, was eating him from the inside out.

“Great,” he groused, “I finally look as bad as I feel.”

They settled in the kitchen, a blanket draped over Terry’s shoulders as he chewed on some oatmeal and Damian glued to his phone; the e-mails and messages never seemed to stop.

Terry managed to speak, “Did you get any sleep?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, a couple hours here and there.” Damian chunked his phone down for a moment before reconsidering and picking it back up. “Did you?”

“I’m not sure,” Terry mumbled.

A few more minutes had passed by, the only sound was Terry’s spoon circling the bottom of his bowl as he slowly churned the oatmeal he couldn’t manage to finish.

“Am I…” Terry began, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. “Am I… okay? To be here?”

Damian gave him his full attention. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

“Well, this is for family. Isn’t it?”

Adjusting his posture, Damian deliberately set down his phone and leveled his gaze on Terry. “How long have you been Batman?”

“Uh, about three or four? Maybe five years?”

“Bruce trusted you. That’s good enough for everyone.” He picked up his phone again, face stony. “It’s good enough for me.” For at least three years Bruce managed to keep Terry undisclosed to Damian and he wasn’t about to let go of that. What’s the saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?

Terry gained his feet and some of his color though he still looked a little worse for wear. “I’m gonna go get cleaned up. I suppose I should be here tonight as well. I got a letter.”

“A letter?”

“Yeah. Came in the mail the day after – uh, you know. Says I am supposed to appear for the reading. You know, the will.”

“A letter.” Damian’s head was several miles away and he did not acknowledge Terry as he left. He stared at his phone. The lawyers must have sent it to Terry as part of Bruce’s instructions. Bruce wanted them to know about Terry and the suit. He wasn’t going to hide it all after all. But to just surprise the rest of the family, without any warning, without any clues? Jeeze, Bruce was a jerk. I mean, to throw Terry in the wolf den like that. But maybe Bruce would have guessed they would know by now… All these secrets, old man. Damian made his way back to the living room. Dick was waiting for him.

“Hey,” Damian offered, a hand raised in some kind of odd greeting.

“Hey,” Dick offered, just as awkwardly. It had been a while since the two of them were in the same room together. It always felt awkward. Dick knew that the Manor wasn’t his home anymore and Damian knew that the Manor was always going to be his. The air just didn’t feel right to either of them.

The two stared at each other for a beat. They nervously moved their arms, flapping them at their sides. While unrelated by blood, Damian had certainly acquired the most uncomfortable of movements from his adopted brother. Side by side, the two looked as unrelated as they were. Damian had taken on many traits from his mother, green eyes non withstanding, he ended up with a more slender build and struggled to pack as much muscle onto his frame as the other men in his family. He peaked at five feet eleven inches, not nearly the tower of six foot two inches possessed by his counterpart and the six foot four possessed by the Batman himself. Dick was all hard angles and radiated with a heat that anyone with a decent radar could sense. He was the definition of masculine and confidence with the physical prowess to back it up. He wasn’t dumb, either. Pity. With everything together, he resembled Bruce more physically than Damian did. A fact Damian was careful not to share. And that was just the basic shit. “So…”

“So…”

“Yeah, uh, one of the lawyers is here. He’s in the parlor. Guess there will be more later.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And, uh, there’s something else.”

“Yeah?”

“Bruce did it. He made another suit.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And a kid, a kid named Terry McGinnis, he’s been wearing it.”

“Yeah.”

Damian had folded his arms across his chest, his chin once again lifting as it did whenever he felt like a superior person. He was obviously looking forward to telling Dick about Terry. “Yeah, he’s been posing as Batman for several years. Apparently, Bruce wasn’t willing to give the suit to you.”

Dick sighed and sat down in the oversized chair, arms flopping on the rests. “Yup.”

“A kid was a better choice for Batman than you. Some street punk in high school.”

Dick rolled his head over his shoulders and worked to control his breathing. “Yes, Damian. I know.”

“You knew?” Damian hissed, incensed. Of course Dick knew. Dick knew everything and would never tell Damian anything. “And you’re okay with this miscreant? Wearing Father’s namesake?”

Dick stared at Damian for a beat, “Yes.”

Damian threw himself into a seat on the sofa, his legs crossing with an abruptness that seemed all too juvenile and displayed his frustration and impatience. “I can’t believe this,” he grumbled. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. No, no! I take it back. I can believe it. You never tell me anything. Ever.”

Dick raised his arms in incredulity. “It was all over the news feeds! I mean, come on! It wasn’t hard to guess!”

Damian’s shoulders lifted, his neck stiffening. It was on the television that he was too busy to even attempt to watch. Television was beneath him. It was boring, it was stupid, it only shared useless information. Except, you know, Batman. “I was… busy… elsewhere.”

What Damian did with his own time was his business. But Dick was more than weary with the younger man’s abuses and accusations. “You know, Damian, it wouldn’t hurt you to live in the real world every now and again.”

A sliver of green flashed as Damian gave him narrow, hard eyes. “One of us has to be ready to be Batman. It certainly isn’t going to be you. I will be ready. And I will not fail him. It’s in my blood.”

Dick had enough, “Listen to me, you asshole! When will you get it through your thick skull that I don’t want to be Batman! I’m Nightwing!”

It was a never-ending fight with Damian. He knew, from an early age, that he was meant to take over in someone’s footsteps. Initially, he was meant to take his place beside his grandfather, the infamous Ras al Ghul, and become a master mind of the underworld, the criminal belly of the planet, and rule through subversion, deceit, and with ironclad control. A few explosions and assassinations later, Damian had found himself under the tutelage of Alfred Pennyworth and his own Father, Bruce Wayne. Bruce had found it necessary to beat some of the elitist assassin out of Damian and to help him rewire his understanding of the way the world works. But being raised by the tender hand of Talia al Ghul did not come without pain. He could take the hits.

Damian grew increasingly attached the to the idea of possessing the title of Batman to the point of obsession. Only one man could wear the suit at a time, and so Damian waited for the title to come to him. It didn’t matter that Dick, Jason, Tim and even Barbara had come first. And Terry? Terry’s little more than a clone! A made pet! He doesn’t even count. Oh no, Damian was the blood son. He was the only choice that mattered. With a goal as tempting as the mantle of Batman, Damian could not understand why the rest of the Bat Family was not in competition with him for it. Every breathing moment, he studied, practiced, learned, absorbed all he could to ensure he was ready to take over. And he let everyone know each and every time he got the opportunity. Damian scoffed. Nightwing. As if that could ever compare.

“Now’s your chance, Damian! Bruce is dead! Go ahead, take it! Take the suit and run around Gotham with it all you want! I don’t care! I don’t care!” Dick got to his feet, every muscle in his body thrumming with energy, fueled by his rage, a rage that he appeared to be less and less capable of throttling. He took a moment, his fists at his sides, to control his temper. He spoke again, softly, treading very carefully, “Don’t you even care that Bruce is gone? He’s dead, Damian. And he’s not coming back. No Lazurus Pit, no cryogenics, no magic, no time jumps. He’s gone. And you. Hah. You. Don’t. Give. A. DAMN!” Dick kicked out at the chair, sending it skidding into the wall, busting a hole in the drywall, collapsing the piece of furniture into a broken frame. The crashing sound and the sudden burst of energy expelled was enough to allow Dick the head space to try and calm himself once again. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?” He gave Damian a glare, unshed tears brimming his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something else. He wanted to cut Damian down with all the spite and anger he had been holding in. He wanted to hurt Damian. He wanted to see the man break down and cry. He was madder than he had ever been. “I hope you’re happy,” be managed, his voice croaking. It was much gentler than what he had wanted to say. Giving Damian his back, he disappeared into the house.

Terry appeared, his hair still wet and tousled. He glanced at the broken chair and the shattered wall. “What did I miss?”  
.  
.  
.  
Dick stared at himself in the mirror. Water dripped down his shoulder, beaded over the length of scar that bisected the joint and fell away. He wiped at the fogging glass and grimaced at himself. A swath of dark purple had appeared across his shoulders along his back. He had landed on the low bar and managed to smash through it. Lucky he didn’t land on his neck. His body was a smattering of mostly self-inflected bruises, and more than a few wounds that were not. A wicked scar down his leg reminded him of the time he accidentally tore his thigh open on a piece of rebar. He must have nicked that blessed artery in his thigh because consciousness only returned to him when Batman pressed a hot blade to the wound to seal away impending death. He turned, baring his back to the mirror. Small, fingertip scars were riddled up his back. Road rash faded in such strange ways. Must have been when he was dragged behind the Joker’s car. Or the motorcycle crash. Or the time he skid down the side of an entire skyscraper. It didn’t really matter anymore. Over his hips and the curve of his ass, four thin lines were etched evenly like perfect grip marks, one side matching the other. Catwoman had tested her new claws on his favorite muscle. Tore right through his suit while she tossed him through a window at the Gotham Historical Museum. He couldn’t sit right for a week. It was ages ago. Could have been… what… twenty years? Maybe more?

Steam from his shower clouded up the mirror. Dick wiped at it. Sometimes when he looked into the mirror he could swear he still had the mask on. Like, those side glances, those quick looks, he could see the shadow around his eyes, across his nose. He couldn’t see the reflection of his eyes. He couldn’t see more than Nightwing. This time, Dick gazed at himself hard, staring down the length of toned muscle and collected wounds. He was rounding fifty at a full sprint and was closer to sixty than the latter. The collagen in his face was seeping away. Lines collected at the corners of his eyes, his mouth, and furrowed deep lines across his forehead colored his once flawless scowl. His skin didn’t cling so tightly to his muscles anymore. His veins appeared more pronounced, more blue tinged. His tan appeared faded, the golden tone replaced with a paleness that seemed to belong to someone else. Silver had bloomed at his temples, raking through the sides of his hair – he finally felt like cutting it shorter to keep the silver streaks at bay.

Everyone forms a picture of themselves at some point in time in their lives that they will continue to compare themselves to for the remainder of their years. Sometimes that picture is skinnier, tanner, less scar-pocked, more youthful and more complete. For Dick, he wasn’t too sure who he was comparing himself to. Was it his younger self? Was it Nightwing? Or was it Batman?

Bruce had once puzzled Dick with an image crisis. Bruce had managed to withstand a mental attack because they had targeted Wayne. But Bruce didn’t think of himself as Wayne. He was Batman. Wayne was the mask. At the time, he had thought Bruce was a simply an egomaniacal sociopath lost in the world of vengeance and vigilantism through decades of disassociating and anti-social behaviors. But with the years and the blurring of his own identity, Dick began to understand just how entrenched one could be with this identity issue.

We clung to the idea of what our “best self” was, at some point in time of our lives. Perhaps it was when we were the healthiest, the wealthiest, the most successful, the strongest, the brightest, or even the most happy we were. But that reflection will never mimic the internal image ever again. And as time rages, the disparity between the two becomes more incongruent. The starkness of the changes becomes less easily dismissed. Fear can accompany the differences in images. Not fear of the image, but the fear that with the image being so for gone, that the identity tied to the image is also gone. The fear can cause us to lash out at ourselves, at those close to us, and can prevent us from forming new relationships. We can even damage ourselves in the empty search to return that image to our current selves.

Some people obsess in the gym. They can take supplements that have outlandish promises. Seek out gurus in the far corners of medical malpractice. They can risk toxicity and flirt with death in a pill bottle or under a surgical knife. Some people will refuse to move on, wearing the same clothes, keeping the same habits, in hopes that some magic will bring it all back. And every now and again, something will feel good, and we’ll know that we were on the right track, and this insanity was worth it.

And sometimes, more often than not, something terrible would happen. And the swirls of depression and anxiety can sweep us away in the brief sanity of understanding some things are beyond our reach. We’ll cry, we’ll repress, we’ll try something else. Bruce’s best self was always in the suit. Dick’s best self was right there beside him. As Robin or Nightwing, it didn’t matter. He was part of a team that saved Gotham in ways no one else could.

Dick wrapped his towel around his waist and made for his lab. “Computer, is the latest serum complete?”

“Yes, Nightwing. Synthesis was completed at 0300 hours.”

“Any problems?”

“No. The solution remains at proper density, viscosity and temperature. All mixture levels reported stable and within safety parameters.”

“Show me the results.”

Files and charts popped up over all his monitors.

“It is ready?”

“Unknown.”

“Bring it out.”

“Nightwing, as part of the safety protocols, I am to remind you that no clinical trials have been conducted. While the serum appears to be stable, it is unknown how a living body would react.”

“Nothing about Lazarus is known, computer. Except for the side effects.”

“It is not recommended for use.”

“It’s just a little bit.”

“The amounts of Lazarus and its effectivity are unknown.”

“Computer. Bring it out.”

The computer seemed to hesitate. It had initiated its safety protocols and was ignored. From within its locked confines, the computer released a chemical mixer. The liquid was being kept under constant motion as the ends of the vials rose and fell opposingly. The machine halt and Dick pulled away a single vial. It fit in the palm of his hand. The motion continuing, the machine withdrew back into the locked container.

“It’s warm,” he marveled.

“Lazarus is kept at 103 degrees Fahrenheit as it was found in naturally occurring pools.”

He lifted the vial, inspecting the bright liquid. “It’s glowing.”

“Properties that produce luminescence are unknown.”

“Ras would submerge into a pool of this stuff.”

“Lazarus is designed as a subdermal injection. It is expected that the effects would disperse much the same as total submersion. Toxicity is possible as toxicity levels are unknown.”

Dick smirked, “Seems there’s a lot you don’t know today.”

“Nothing about Lazarus is known.”

Dick put the vial in the dispersal unit and pressed it to his forearm. “We’ll know a few things in a moment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still in works... Damian, neh?

**Author's Note:**

> And the edits just keep on coming.


End file.
